


“Hell on Earth" Is Not Just An Expression

by Lucky7



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things in his past that John Reese will never share…not even with a therapist.<br/>(Fill-in scenes from early seasons and ones that we’re probably glad we didn’t see!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Hell on Earth" Is Not Just An Expression

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to this fic is “On the Chain”

**2006 – Prague, Czech Republic**

With a deft turn of the key, he steps into the room, automatically breathing through his mouth in an attempt to ward off the smell of blood and emptied bowels. The toxic miasma hovers over the room like Death's cloak, seeping into the very walls. Someday, he thinks, he probably won’t even notice the stench, will not only be able to walk in on scenes like this without reaction but be the primary cause of them.

But for now he’s got a job to do and retching in the middle of it is only going to delay the end.

The two bodies are sprawled inelegantly, puppets without strings flung as an afterthought into their respective chairs. Not an hour ago he’d been sitting across from these men, watching intently as they enjoyed the aged bourbon so favored at this event. And listening to them answer Kara Stanton’s pointed questions.

He’d known these men, but as the new recruit only superficially. Just as well that, since it was his assignment to discover just what game they’d been playing - which as it turned out, was a dirty one. Their last one.

The outcome of their defection would likely have been that they’d become the targets of what they were themselves: assassins. That he had known.  
What he had not known, nor expected, was that the cold-blooded execution would take place so quickly and in his presence, without any evidence other than what he’d presented to his mentor.

What if he’d erred? What if there had been another explanation for their actions? He knew he had researched the issue thoroughly, but still…

Ms. Stanton however, had not quibbled. He’d asked the question that continues to nibble at the edge of his conscious like a hungry mouse. And even now her response still leaves him with an uneasy feeling.

 _“How do we know it was them?”_  
_“Anonymous source. Highly reliable...”_

Pulling the serving cart into the room, he allows the lock to reengage with a soft snick as he neatly folds the side cloths onto the top shelf. He has limited time to accomplish this task and works quickly. Kara Stanton is not one to wait with even a modicum of patience…

Gathering up the required equipment had been a no-brainer, as was filching a waiters white jacket and cart. His tools now reside in the large basket on the bottom shelf of said cart - which had been ridiculously easy to maneuver through the crowded room beyond without attracting any notice.

Not that he had expected otherwise; after all, wait staff at these high level events are non-entities: necessary to provide food and drinks, but otherwise don’t exist in the same rarefied plane of the international leaders and politicians that crowd the opulent room.

Removing the tools, he places them one by one on the cart’s top: sturdy rose clippers, a sharp K-Bar, and just in case that doesn’t get the job done, a small hatchet. All that is followed by a bottle of Bloody Mary mix, a spray bottle of bleach, and several cleaning rags. The plastic lined bags he leaves in the basket for use when needed.

First order of business is to get the bodies to the floor and strip them of any easily identified items, including any laundry or clothing tags. Meticulously he searches all pockets again, though he knows Ms. Stanton has already relieved the two of their ID’s and wallets. Of course neither contains their real names, but lack of attention to details can easily cause any assignment to go sideways.

Better safe than face the wrath of The Powers That Be. Or forced “retirement”.

_“I need you to dispose of this…and them. No teeth. No fingertips.”_

It isn’t the first time he’s had to get rid of a weapon or a body - bodies in this case. But that last is new, at least for him… Still, he’s always been a fast study; he’ll get this done in a heartbeat.

Placing the various tags he’s removed into the basket, he retrieves a bag and the clippers. Then positioning himself comfortably in front of one chair, he lifts a slack hand, turning it over and back to inspect the fingers.

The human hand is an elegantly engineered appendage containing twenty-seven bones - fourteen of which are phalanges, or the bony parts of fingers. With three phalanges per finger, a hand is capable of picking up the smallest button, play a soaring piano symphony…or easily pull the trigger on a gun. 

OK, these guys may have picked up a button or two in their time on earth...but he’s pretty certain neither ever created any music. What they _did_ do with those fingers was pull the trigger on a gun. Likely many, many times. But now? They won’t miss the few bones he’ll take with him.

He needs only to cut off the top phalange where the fingernails are located and the sharp rose clippers easily handle that task, especially when the sniping is done between the bones where the soft tissue and tendons are located. With no beating heart to pump blood through arteries and veins, bleeding is fortunately held to a minimum.

Even so, he’s extra careful not to get any blood or other bodily fluids on his garb but knowing if he does, he can use the bleach on any stains - or if that doesn't work - simply spill some Bloody Mary mix on the jacket to cover up the telltale spots. A clumsy waiter may be considered an abomination in this crowd, but likely not so much as a murderous one…

With that chore complete he tosses the last of the digits into the bag and proceeds to the next task: teeth.

Though still very new to the organization, he’s aware of the standard practice of removing several teeth from an executed criminal as proof of death. But removing all of them? Seems rather tedious and time consuming.

He returns to the cart and exchanges the clippers for the knife. Why bother with all those teeth when he can simply take off the entire head? Stuff them into different bags and take them along. He'll have time enough to extract a couple of molars if need be, before disposing of the bags in separate locations in well limed pits...and they'll be good as gone forever.

Even if the body parts are found, without dental records or fingerprints on file the only option left is DNA analysis. And no one in this part of the world is going to spend that kind of time and money attempting to ID a person who is already a ghost. The CIA is very effective at making even their active employees disappear.

So dead is dead; they’ll not miss their heads any more than their finger tips. And after all, isn’t problem solving under pressure and taking the initiative considered a plus in this job?

Grabbing the first male by the hair, he starts slicing…

 

 --------------------------------

**2010 – Paris, France**

“Why the glum face?” she asks, slathering another layer of butter on her toast. “Morning after regrets?”

He doesn’t answer and continues to stir his coffee, though why he even bothered ordering a cup he doesn’t know. The stuff is almost undrinkable. As far as the rest of the breakfast…well, he’s not had much of an appetite during this trip, despite the luxurious accommodations.

Watching Kara study the plate of assorted cold cuts - part of the standard breakfast fare at this five star hotel - he almost snorts when she finally makes her choice. How appropriate…how very appropriate that she chooses the blood sausage! Because was there was ever a woman who enjoyed bloodletting as much as she?

Their current assignment is over, thank God! He’s had about enough of her predatory advances, though if he’s honest with himself, he’s done nothing during this trip to discourage her. So she finally made an overt move last night and suggested they take a few days off. Together.

_“April in Paris? What do you say…?”_

He’d remained noncommittal, earning him a violent response…which he returned in equal measure, keeping his hand on her throat in case she decided to escalate her attack. But that kiss? And then the aftermath? Terrible idea!

He could only put that bad decision down to finally cracking under her constant criticism and thinly veiled interest in him as a bed buddy. Plus his adrenalin had still been running high after that double shooting, something that always results in the predictable physical response.

Not much of an excuse, but there it is...

While the woman is just as predatory in bed as out, it’s not a relationship he cares to pursue. However, she’s here, she’s his partner, and he has to work with her going forward. And right now she’s waiting on an answer.

“Not glum. Just concerned. You know Mark doesn’t approve of his agents getting involved with each other.”

“Mark is an old lady. And I can handle him. Besides, he likes me,” she responds, making quick work of her cold cuts and bread. Then adds, “Stop worrying. If he starts complaining, I’ll take care of it.”

He smiles at her, though certainly not because he’s feeling particularly friendly at the moment. But the restaurant is filling up quickly and they don’t need any extra attention on them - which means wiping the foul expression from his face.

“You may not have anything to worry about; you have seniority. But I’m low man on the totem pole and definitely _not_ his favorite.” He lifts the now cold coffee to his lips. “So I’d prefer we cool it for a while.”

“Cool it….? Mmm. Sounds like a brush off to me.” She crosses the knife and fork on her plate, signaling the end to the meal. “You didn’t enjoy yourself last night?”

Fortunately he’s saved from having to answer by the waiter coming to clear dishes and brush crumbs from the table. But Kara is not to be deterred.

“So honey, were you able to find a home for all that luggage you had in the trunk?” she asks, innocent wifely concern dripping from each word.

He grinds his teeth but keeps his expression neutral. With the waiter still fussing over their table its imperative they keep up their cover as a married couple enjoying their vacation in Paris. But it’s so like Kara, to always skate on the edge of danger. And if there isn’t any immediate threat, she’ll try to create one just for the fun of it - such as having an open conversation about his most recent task as though it couldn’t wait until they were alone!

Or maybe this is payback for his questioning the original order, as Kara rarely pays attention to this part of their mission, a part she always assigns to him. Not, he knows only too well, that she’s squeamish, but it’s only the execution of the job that excites Kara, not the aftermath. So as usual, it falls to him to do the cleanup.

He’s gotten quite proficient over the years at making the dead disappear. As proficient as he has become at creating them. But it’s not the ease with which he can perform these tasks that bothers him, it’s the coldness that creeps into his bones during those times, making him wonder – and worry - if he’s becoming more like Kara than he is aware.

Last night he’d scared even himself when he’d responded to Kara’s attack. With his hand on her neck he’d realized how easily he could kill her. Just put his thumb in the right place and apply just the right amount of pressure… And she’d be out of his life. So quick. So easy.

It was her aggressive kiss that had derailed those thoughts, brought back his sanity. And maybe that was the reason he’d ended up in her bed. Restitution perhaps, for his fleeting thought about killing her..?

Now looking over the rim of his cup, he responds through gritted teeth, “No problem, dear. I took care of it.”

And knows he is still walking that dark path to hell.

 

\-----------------------------------------

**2010 - Ordos, China**

His side is on fire, the pain almost blinding him but he knows he can’t stop. Not yet. Not until he’s out of range of the blasts that will be coming. Breathing becomes harder, his legs rapidly losing strength as he moves in an ever faltering run away from the building. When the force of the explosion finally reaches him, it almost knocks him off his feet. Still, he risks stopping, turning to look at the inferno behind him.

Could Kara have survived that blast? He doubts it, and is somewhat surprised at how little he cares.

Stumbling on, he finds refuge near the tree line, removing his jacket and shirt to get to the t-shirt underneath. Stripping it off sends agonizing spears into his side but it needs be done. He needs the cloth for a pressure pad. The wound is ugly, but as far as he can tell, has missed any vital organs and with a little luck, the minimal first aid items he carries with him will help keep him upright.

What a mess! The whole trip had made him apprehensive from the start. And then Snow’s order to eliminate his partner? That was a real shocker!

But apparently he wasn’t the only one whose alarms were going off. Kara too had become suspicious.

 _“I’m not sure we’re being told the whole story here.”_  
_“Ours is not to question why… Isn’t that what you told me?”_  
_“And I thought you weren’t listening!”_

The bantering conversation had not relieved either of them of the feeling that the situation was fast moving into FUBAR territory. Finding an entire complex full of dead bodies only fed those suspicions.

He had vacillated between simply ignoring Snow’s orders and keeping his own counsel with coming clean to Kara about the execute order he’d been given. But his hesitation grew when he realized she’d lied to him as she shot the last remaining survivor of the facility bloodbath.

Evidently she was not aware he understood Chinese as well as did she. So did she kill the last remaining survivor because she simply enjoyed killing…or was there another agenda in play? He didn’t trust her.

Still, when the time came, he couldn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t ignore all the training and bonding that came from facing danger together over the years. Because though he might have been having second thoughts about his job, Kara had saved his ass more than once.

They were partners, and now he was to shoot the one person who had always had his back? That wasn’t right.

“Hell on earth” is not just an expression, he thinks. There were times when a person creates his own misery simply through bad decisions. His worst one was made in that airport years ago when he allowed his girl to walk away. All the decisions since then have been about trying to do the right thing, but always wondering what that really is...

Surely killing people for a living isn’t “the right thing” - no matter what the justification.

Lying on his good side, he rips open a package of Celox and with awkward and painful movements manages to pour most of the granules into the open wound. He hopes the first aid hemostatic lives up to its claims to clot and stem bleeding, because if it doesn’t, this will become his final resting place!

Waiting until the gel clot forms, he replaces the pad and with great effort puts on his shirt again. Then tying the tails over the pad to hold it in place, he gets slowly to his feet to start the trek to the main entrance.

It’s a long haul back, made even longer by having to stop every so often to retie his shirt over the Celox soaked pad. But the stuff seems to work: the bleeding has all but stopped. Eventually he reaches the main entrance and what do you know…the jarheads they’d left behind are still there.

Interesting. What was it one of them had said?  
“ _We got orders to make our own way back_.”

Which likely means that these guys were more than just guides for he and Kara; they were also the clean-up crew. The fact that his sudden approach has all three reaching for their guns rather confirms his suspicions.

But the men see him approach with his right hand to his side, his hunched over posture and the stiffness in his gait obviously indicating an injury. All three relax, probably figuring he presents no immediate threat, a loose end that can be taken care of at their leisure.

Bad decision on their part…

He pulls the pistol from his cargo pants pocket with his left hand and double taps all three before any can raise their weapons. It’s a real advantage to be ambidextrous, he thinks, as he views the bodies before him.

But this time he’s not going to do the clean-up, though it causes him a frisson of guilt. It’s very likely that these men had no more of an idea of the real agenda here than did he and Kara. They too may have thought they were doing the right thing…

He shakes his head and moves away from the sprawled bodies and toward the road. He is truly on his own now. Once off these grounds he will make his own way and Mark Snow and the CIA will all be in the past - his past. There will be no going back…not ever!

As officially dead, he’ll go in the files as just another victim in the effort to make the world a safer place. He’ll even get a star on the wall at Langley!

But now? He’ll make a new life, poles apart from the old, far away from the black ops, political intrigue, and death. No more walking in the dark! It’s an entirely new path he's taking, with a completely different destination....

And the first stop on this new path is New Rochelle…

 


End file.
